The Secret Chord
by Ricechex
Summary: Prequel to The Minor Fall. Explores events that brought Sherlock & Jim together the first time, how Sherlock ended up hooked on drugs, what drove him deeper into them, and how bad it got when he landed in the hospital. Originally intended as a one-shot, now a short WIP chaptered fic.
1. Chapter 1 Sherlock

It was a truly miserable early January night. Sherlock Holmes shivered as he stepped from the bus, arms clenched around his torso as if they would provide him any sort of protection against the driving sleet. He hadn't been thinking, of course, he'd simply left - although the long but rather shallow cut along his right cheekbone would argue that fact.

He allowed himself one small smirk at the memory of it. He allowed a larger smirk at the way the other passengers had shied away from him when they saw how profusely it was bleeding, too. He might have to remember that the next time he didn't feel like being crowded on public transport.

He glanced around quickly, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt back up in yet another feeble attempt to stay slightly drier than the Thames. His teeth were chattering, and he couldn't quite feel his fingertips. Not good.

Finally, he saw the street signs, and he hurried to the corner. He rounded it, looking at the building numbers until he came to the one he was looking for. He hopped up the steps and pressed the bell, shivering as he stood and waited.

A moment later, the door opened. "Sh-Sherlock?"

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "I..." He takes in his surroundings - small entryway, stairs to the right, cramped hallway to the left that lead to a door, possibly another flat - before turning to his host. "I didn't know where else to go right now, Jim."

"Christ, you're soaked." Jim Moriarty's Irish accent was a bit stronger than normal, and Sherlock could smell alcohol - wine. Red, judging by the slight staining at his lips. "Come on, let's get you-"

Sherlock leaned in, his body not listening to a thing his brain was screaming. He leaned in and kissed Jim.

It was awkward, not the least of the reasons being because Sherlock was still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. His lips felt like ice as they touched Jim's; Jim, so warm, so caring, so kind. Jim, who tasted of fermented berries and a hint of chocolate. Jim, who was suddenly kissing him back.

Sherlock let a soft whimper escape his lips, and his trembling hands grabbed Jim's shoulders, pulled him closer. "Jim, oh god, Jim, I..."

Jim's hands were in his hair now, fingers running through his water-logged curls and tugging gently. "No, Sherlock, don't... don't apologize."

Jim pulled back just enough to look up into Sherlock's eyes, seemingly just as amazed at the turn of events as Sherlock was.

"Come on, you're goin' to catch your death standin' there."

Sherlock suddenly remember just how cold he really was, and nodded quickly. "Yes."

Jim lead him upstairs, glancing back every few seconds as though Sherlock might have disappeared when he wasn't looking.

They stepped into a cozy flat, with a small but much desirable fire going. Sherlock saw the bottle of red wine sitting on a small table near an armchair, an empty glass beside it. The residue of the wine was still coating the sides of the glass.

"Just through here." Sherlock turned back, nodding, and trudged after Jim.

The bathroom was rather small, but the shower was already starting to steam and it was like heaven the moment Sherlock began to peel himself out of the multitude of layers he had on. He frowned at them all, just why did he need so many clothes at once? Oh right, it was January. It had snowed last week. There was sleet tonight. Unfavorable conditions, his brother would have called them.

He closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

He opened his eyes and looked over to Jim. "Hmm?"

Jim looked at him, slightly nervous. "Are you..." He looked at Sherlock's cheek. "Oh, Mother Mary, what happened to you?"

Sherlock's eyes unfocused as his fingertips reached up, tracing the cut. "I ended it." He looked back at Jim. "Irene. She..." He took a deep breath, smiling. "She gave me something to remember her by."

Sherlock couldn't help it - he started laughing. Jim stood there, staring at him as though he'd lost his mind. The laughter turned absolutely manic until Sherlock collapsed to his hands and knees, legs refusing to hold him up and his hysterics turning into tears. "As if I didn't have enough scars from her!" He was shouting now, and he knew he shouldn't be, knew he should be calming down, getting into the shower. But now the torrent had started, and he couldn't stop it. "As if I don't carry everything - every fucking thing - she ever did to me!"

He can barely breathe as he looks up, arms going around his middle as he sits back on his feet. "Jim..."

He's on his feet, Jim's arms around him. Jim's speaking softly, soothingly, as he helps Sherlock out of his shoes, his socks and trousers and pants. Jim sits him on the closed toilet lid and says he'll be right back, stay there. Sherlock waits, hands and arms limp at his sides. The steam is warm as it curls and dissipates inches from his frigid skin, and he wonders if he can just stay there, exactly like this. He'll never move again if he doesn't have to.

A moment later, Jim steps back in, towels in hand. Sherlock looks up and takes at least five seconds too long before he registers that Jim, like himself, is entirely naked.

"What..." He stares at Jim's torso. "What are you..."

Jim shakes his head. "You can barely hold yourself. I'm only going to make sure you don't fall and crack your skull wide open."

Sherlock swallows and nods, and lets Jim help him up. He steps shakily into the shower, and it's as though he's jumped into a boiling pot. "Fuck!"

"Hey now." Jim steps in, hands steady on Sherlock's arms. "You think this is hot? This is nothing, Sherlock."

"If the... the water's too warm..." Sherlock trails off as he sees Jim shiver slightly when the water hits him. "You're... cold?"

"Yes, Sherlock brilliant deduction." Jim's voice is terse. "The water feels that hot to you because you've been out in ridiculous weather. Couldn't have been more than ten degrees, and sleeting!"

Sherlock licked his lips and watched as Jim reached over, twiddling the knobs gently.

"Now just... stand there, alright?"

Sherlock nods and says nothing. The water eventually stops feeling as though it's scorching him, and he begins to relax. "Thank-you."

Jim's hands are running along Sherlock's chest and back before he turns to fiddle with the knobs and increase the temperature. "For what?"

Sherlock watches him silently for a moment. He feels the heat increase on his skin, feels his face burn as he flushes. Jim turns back, looking at him inquisitively.

In response, Sherlock leans in and kisses him again.

This time, Sherlock presses forward, crowding into Jim, one arm around his waist and the other stroking slowly along his jaw, his neck. Sherlock's lips are forceful and demanding, and for a moment he thinks he really has done something wrong.

But then Jim's arm locks around his ribs, and his lips are moving desperately against Sherlock's and he's moaning softly into Sherlock's mouth.

"Jim..."

"Sherlock, Christ, I..."

"I don't... I've never done..."

"Shhh."

Sherlock stops talking and lets himself simply exist in the moment.

His whole body again feels like it's on fire. He can't really complain, though, not with Jim pressed against him, Jim touching him, Jim kissing him.

He lets the hand that isn't around Jim's waist trail down until his fingertips are tracing patterns on Jim's hip.

"Sherlock, oh, god..."

"Jim, I..." Sherlock is shaking again. He closes his eyes takes a deep breath, shifting his body back a bit and moving his hand until it brushes against Jim's cock.

He feels Jim shudder at the contact, and opens his eyes, looking down between them. It's odd for less than a second, and then he takes hold of it purposefully. He lets his eyes trail back up to see Jim staring at him, shock and wonder and a hint of longing leaping from his eyes.

Sherlock starts stroking him slowly, and Jim's head falls back.

"Jesus, Sherlock..."

Sherlock bites his lower lip and keeps going, adding a slight twist of his wrist whenever his palm is over the head. Jim gasps, his hands coming up to cling at Sherlock's shoulders. Jim's panting now, and Sherlock wonders how it would feel to bring him off, to feel him come all over his hand...

Sherlock groans when he feels Jim's hand on his own prick. Long strokes, slightly tighter as his hand touches the glans, and Sherlock is sobbing at the sensations, his brain seemingly offline as he pleads softly. "Jim, oh god, please, please, Jim, please, Christ, oh, Jim..."

The shower abruptly shuts off, and Jim's pulling him out, barely toweling him off before he's being pulled through a small hallway and into another room.

Jim's bedroom.

Jim pulls Sherlock to the bed, pulls him down and kisses him as their legs tangle up. "Sherlock, I... I want you..."

Sherlock isn't sure what he's supposed to say to this and so he says nothing, just continues kissing Jim and letting his hands explore every piece of Jim that he can reach. Sherlock hears something pop, but Jim's still there, still right there with him, so he pushes it from his brain.

Something cold and slick touches his prick, and he jumps back in shock. Jim's grinning. "Just some lube, Sherlock." He holds up his slicked hand.

Sherlock nods, and watches as Jim reaches for him again, moans as Jim's hand starts stroking him again. He doesn't even notice when Jim maneuvers him onto his back. He hears the pop again, and then he feels the same cold and slick sensation just below his balls.

"Ooooh, Jim... I..."

Anything he was about to say is lost then, as he feels Jim's fingers circling his arse. He bites his lower lip and considers his choices, which is very difficult with the staggering lack of blood flow to his brain at the moment. He could ask Jim to stop. He's not sure this is a good idea. He and Irene just split, he's consumed with emotions that he can't sort through at the moment. It's all so terribly distracting. Jim's been drinking, he might be less interested in this idea when sober, his thought process is compromised.

Then he feels himself relaxing, and one of Jim's fingers pushes into him.

At this point, thinking has been de-prioritized significantly.

Sherlock is panting and arching and gasping and seeing spots in front of his eyes. "Jim... oh god..."

Jim's finger pressed in a bit farther, slow and steady. "Tell me..." Jim was panting against Sherlock's hip, his other hand still stroking Sherlock's nearly painful erection. "...if it's too much."

Jim's finger moved back out again, then in, and Sherlock's mind blanked. He knew that a moment ago, he'd been having second thoughts. Now, there wasn't a power in the world that could make him remember, not while his skin felt too tight and too heavy all around him.

Pop. Cold. Slick. A second finger. Sherlock was crying out wantonly, his voice breaking as he said Jim's name over and over.

Pop. Cold. Slick. A third finger. Sherlock became utterly incapable of forming words. All he could do was pant out sounds, moans, groans, anything. Mouth hanging wide open, brain fuzzy and non-responsive. His entire being had narrowed down to the feelings of Jim's hand on his cock and Jim's fingers in his arse.

Jim curled his fingers slowly. Sherlock raised an arm, bit down hard on his own hand. It hurt and it felt so good. He wasn't sure which was stronger, which he should pay more attention to.

"God, Sherlock..."

Rip. Sherlock looked down the length of his own body to see Jim rolling a condom onto his own erection. Pop. Jim spread lube over the condom. Jim looked up at him. Sherlock looked back. Jim bit his lower lip.

"Um... Roll over for me?"

Sherlock took in a shaking breath but did as Jim asked. He was shaking so much again that when Jim's hands found his hips, he whimpered loudly.

"Shh, it's alright, Sherlock." Jim's hands moved his hips up, angled him better. He could feel the head of Jim's cock pressing against him as Jim leaned over, careful. "We can stop whenever you want to."

Sherlock swallowed and bit his lip and said nothing, just nodded his head.

Was he consenting? Was he saying yes, let's stop? He wasn't sure. He didn't know and he couldn't form the words to say something, anything.

Jim lined himself up again, and slowly pushed into him.

It hurt. For a moment, that was the only thing Sherlock knew. It hurt, it hurt so damn much, and he turned his face, biting into the pillow until he swore he could taste down. His brain came online long enough to laugh at what a cliché he'd become in that precise moment, and then Jim pulled back, started moving.

Sherlock bit down on the pillow and tried his best not to scream.


	2. Chapter 2 Jim

It had been almost a month since Sherlock had shown up at Jim's door, soaking wet and half frozen to death, with a bleeding cheek and a newly broken engagement. It had been an awkward and difficult night followed by an even more complicated morning, really, but Jim was fairly certain that everything was going well now.

He'd seen Sherlock at rehearsals, but he'd been jumpy, even timid. Jim smiled. _Oh, how the mighty has fallen..._

He took a sip of his coffee and read the paper. The war in Afghanistan was as bad as it ever was, it seemed. Another ambush had taken quite a few soldiers' lives. He scanned along, eyebrows raising when he saw that the majority of them this time had been medics. _They're getting smarter, you can't deny that._

Once his coffee was finished, he dressed in casual clothes - khakis, a polo shirt, sensible shoes and warm coat. He grabbed his violin case and his folder full of music and trotted down the stairs, hailing a cab.

He smiled as he rode, wondering how Sherlock would be fairing today. He licked his lips and closed his eyes. If he was being honest with himself - and let's face it, the only person he trusted to keep his secrets _was_ himself - he had rather enjoyed that night. Sherlock had been incredibly... virginal, for someone who'd taken up with a woman who had a reputation as one of the top dominatrices in the country. Of course, this was all rumor - after all, Irene Adler came from money, and lots of it. And a lot of money had gone into quashing all of those ugly rumors before they got out of hand.

Jim bit his lower lip and grinned. If he hadn't set his sights on Sherlock, Irene could have been... fun. Of course, nothing said he couldn't pursue... something, there. Perhaps a good business agreement could be struck up, if she was so inclined.

The cab pulled up in front of Cadogan Hall, and Jim paid the driver, stepping out and stretching his arms. As he looked at it, thoughts of Irene filled his head again. Perhaps he was setting his sights far too low, going after Sherlock's First Chair placement. He made a mental note to call Irene before the week was out.

He stepped in and nodded at the security guard, who tipped his hat. "Good morning, Mr. Moriarty." Jim flashed him a dazzling smile and walked past.

He walked down a long hallway and through a door marked _BACKSTAGE_. Several other musicians greeted him, and he grinned at them all, murmuring hellos when needed as he made a beeline for his chair.

Sherlock wasn't here yet. That was alright. Jim was patient. He could wait.

He settled into his chair and began organizing his music oh the stand in front of him, pulling out various sheets and looking them over, frowning at some and nodding at others. From the folder he produced a pencil, and set to work leaving himself small messages.

A noise to his right made him smile. "Good morning, Sherlock."

He didn't look over as Sherlock sat down hurriedly and mumbled something that sounded like a greeting.

"Coffee?" Jim looked over, his grin never faltering.

Sherlock paused, his head turning fractionally towards Jim. He swallowed, then nodded too quickly. "Um... yes. Please."

"Black, two sugars, coming right up." Jim reached out - this was important, this moment of contact - and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder in a friendly manner. He felt Sherlock tense up, felt a soft but unmistakably shaky breath drawn in. Then he was up and out of his seat, striding back through the maze of musicians and instruments, back out to the lobby. He waved again to the security guard, who touched the brim of his hat in return.

Jim stepped back outside and walked across the street, turning right. He put his hands in his pockets and whistled, smiling at everything.

Things were going even better than he'd hoped they might be, at this point.

He rounded the corner and stepped into Piccolo's Bar. He waved to the barista, who smiled brightly at him, her blonde hair artfully styled in ringlets. "Two usuals?"

He beamed at her. "What would I do without you, Cherie?"

She giggled as she started grinding coffee beans. He kept smiling at her. Flirting was easy.

They made meaningless small talk as she prepped his drinks: his rehearsals and preparations for the upcoming concert season, her parents coming to visit from Cardiff. He made mention of a friend who's engagement had fallen through, and Cherie's reaction was textbook - the soft sigh, the gentle, "Awww." The look of absolute pain despite her having no clues as to why or how the engagement had ended.

Textbook. Ordinary. Boring.

He handed her cash, telling her to keep the change, and she smiled appreciatively. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, yes?"

He grinned. "It's a date, my dear."

He walked quickly, thinking about how easy it was to predict people's reactions.

Everyone's except Sherlock's, at least.

Oh, Sherlock had certain reactions that were anything but interesting. His anger and frustration and even his pain at the way things had ended between him and Irene - those had come right on cue, regardless of how things had always been between the two of them.

No, it had been the kiss. That first kiss, that desperate, pleading kiss.

That had been intriguing. That had been unexpected.

Jim could work with that.

He stepped back into Cadogan Hall, grinning at the guard again as he hurried past. He wound through until he was standing at his seat again. Sherlock was still there, tensing as Jim stepped closer.

Jim held out his coffee, and Sherlock hesitated only a moment before he took it gently.

"Thank you." His voice was low, but his rolled up to look at Jim. "You know you don't have to keep doing this."

Jim frowned. "Getting coffee for me and a friend?" The word rolled off his tongue so easily. He smiled. "It's nothing."

Sherlock looked unsettled. Jim took in everything - hair mussed, bags and dark circles under his eyes, face gaunt and thinner than it had been a month ago. He was losing both weight and sleep. He couldn't carry on this way - he'd be dead in less than a year.

It was marvelous how well this plan was working. But he didn't want Sherlock dead. Well, not yet.

Jim slid into his chair and started looking through his music again before settling them on his stand and opening his violin case. He pulled out the instrument, running fingers over the polished wood with loving care.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Sherlock stop what he'd been doing to watch. He did not imagine it when he heard Sherlock swallow very loudly. Jim let a soft sigh escape his lips. Sherlock turned away quickly, pulling out his own violin.

Jim placed the instrument in its own stand, then pulled out his bow and rosin. He worked the rosin into the taught strings, biting his lower lip as his hand worked up and down the length of it.

As if on cue, Sherlock suddenly leapt up and strode away. Jim grinned for only a second, then set his bow and rosin back in the case, standing up and looking around. His eyes scanned the backstage area, finally resting on Sherlock's backside, bent over slightly with his hands pressed against the wall, his back moving exaggeratedly as he took gulping breaths.

Breaking Sherlock was almost too enjoyable. Jim would miss this, when it was all said and done. Perhaps he should find a way to draw this out...

His eyes lit up, and he ducked his head to hide his smile. _Of course_. He quickly rearranged plans in his head. He knew precisely how to draw this out now, and how to make Sherlock's fall from grace even more scandalous.

He grabbed some music from his stand and one of his pencils, which he tucked behind his ear as he made his way to Sherlock.

"Hey."

Sherlock tensed but did not turn around. "Please go, Jim." His voice was broken and soft. Jim pursed his lips.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. I... I am simply not feeling well."

"In the years I've known you, you've never been sick before. What's wrong?"

One of Sherlock's hands came up to cover his eyes. "I can't..." His voice trailed off.

"Is... is it Irene?"

"Yes. No. Of course it is. No it's not, why would it be." Sherlock let out a small, mirthless laugh and turned around, face red. He looked as though he might have pulled something trying to keep himself from breaking down just now. Jim frowned.

"You're not making much sense, Sherlock. Talk to me?"

Sherlock wiped a hand over his face a few times. "It's Irene. It's..." He looked at Jim from the corner of his eye. "It's you. It's the music and it's my brother and it's _everything_, Jim, and I just..."

Jim swallowed. "Me?"

Sherlock's lips thinned. "It... that, thing. That we did."

Jim's mouth made a little, 'o,' and he nodded once. "Right, that." He scuffed one foot against the floor. "Um... sorry?"

Sherlock waved away the apology. "It wasn't... you were just... I shouldn't have kissed you, I suppose."

Jim gave him a half smile. "I didn't mind so much. You might have noticed."

Sherlock snorted, and Jim held up the sheet music he'd grabbed, stepping closer. Sherlock stiffened, the momentary respite broken just like that.

"What are you doing, Jim?"

"Just... look." Jim stared into Sherlock's eyes. "It'll look better if we're talking with the sheet music in our hands. No one will get suspicious. You can tell them all I'm asking for tips on the second section, alright?"

Sherlock licked his lips, and nodded. "Alright."

"And just... stop looking like you're about to piss yourself."

Sherlock glared. "You don't frighten me, Jim."

_Then you're not paying attention, Sherlock_. "I don't want to frighten you. I want you to explain why you're avoiding me. I just... I thought..."

Sherlock swallowed. "I... I don't do..." He gestured between them minutely. "Emotional entanglements are... difficult. For me."

Jim nodded slowly. "Look, I'm... I'm not here to ask you for a date or anything."

Sherlock frowned. "Oh. That's... good."

Jim smiled tentatively. _It was almost too easy, really_. "I just... I want my friend back."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, mouth slipping open. He took a sudden breath, looking down at the music stretched between their hands. "Oh..." He stared at the music for a moment longer, then looked back up to Jim's face. "I... yes, that... good. I'd like that too."

Jim smiled wider. "Alright then." He pulled the music away, rolling it in his hands. "How are you? After... everything."

Sherlock's cheeks flushed slightly. "It's... still awkward. With Irene. Well, with her parents, really."

Jim nodded. "I can imagine."

"I'm fairly certain they're just looking for an excuse to have me turned out, but Lestrade won't have it." Sherlock sighed. "Look, I just want to forget about it all. At least for a while. And everytime I turn around..." Sherlock shook his head. "I'm struggling to keep it from affecting my playing but..." He shrugged.

Jim regarded him quietly. _You're not even making it challenging for me now. _"Look, far be it from me to think I know how to help. But... if you've an interest in forgetting..."

Sherlock looked at him, hope and desperation and concern and mistrust plain on his face. "What? What do I need to do?"

Jim looked away. "I can... help." He looked up quickly. "No no, not like that." He shook his head decidedly. "Look, meet me somewhere tonight."

Sherlock frowned. "Where?"

Jim shrugged. "Wherever you want. Wherever you'll feel comfortable."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "I-"

"Places!"

They turned abruptly, seeing Maestro Lestrade shuffling music at his podium. "Places, places, quiet down!"

Jim reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Just think about it, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, and they made their way back to their seats.

And if Jim played better in that rehearsal than he had the day before, well, who was to know why?

Rehearsal was long, and really rather tedious, but Jim always found ways to make it a bit more bearable. Today he thought about just how good it would be to finally be able to drag Sherlock down into the depths, watch him flounder and sputter and beg.

Today he thought about what it would feel like to take over the First Chair position.

As rehearsal ended, he looked at Sherlock. "Have you thought about it?"

Sherlock finished stowing his violin and stood up. "I..." He closed his eyes. "What... are we talking about, precisely?"

Jim smiled. "We can talk outside." Sherlock nodded, and the two walked through the hall together quietly.

As they stepped outside, Jim's phone rang.

Sherlock looked over at him, arching one brow. Jim winced.

"Do you mind if I get that?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll... I'll see you tomorrow."

Jim smiled softly. "It's a date."

Sherlock tried for a smile but it fell flat, and he shuffled quickly towards the kerb, hailing a taxi.

Jim glared at his phone. "Hello?"

"Is this Jim Moriarty?"

Jim frowned. Female, or someone who could do a damn good impersonation of one. "Yes of course it is, what do you want?" He refused to hide any of his frustration at the interruption. He'd _nearly_ had Sherlock hooked...

"Someone who wants to meet you, talk about a few things. Someone who wants to see Sherlock Holmes crushed and broken even more than you do."

Jim glanced around and ducked down a tiny alleyway.

"_Say that again_!"

The woman was silent.

"Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you." She murmured an understanding. "And I will _ssssskin _you."

The soft gasp that she let out made him smile. Certain he was being taken seriously then, he waited.

"I want to see Sherlock Holmes disgraced. I want to see him fallen from every favor he's gained." There was true malice in her voice now, real spite. It was something Jim could appreciate. "I want to see him driven mad. And I want him _gone_."

"Oi." Jim paused, looking back towards the main road. No one was there, no one was staring at him or wondering just what he was doing here. London was always busy, always too busy to notice just what was happening everywhere. It was one reason he loved it so.

He took a deep breath, then spoke again. "And just how would you propose we go about this, Ms. Adler?"

He was rewarded with a throaty chuckle. "You don't disappoint, Mr. Moriarty." She cleared her throat, and Jim could hear movement - perhaps she was getting comfortable. "Now before we get into the specifics, I'm dying to know one thing - just how good _was_ he in bed?"

Jim laughed. "I'm afraid I don't kiss and tell, my dear."

"Oh, pity."

"So tell me, my sweet." Jim smiled as he stepped a bit farther into the alley. "What motivates you in this? Other than wounded pride at being left by him."

"Do I need anything else?" Jim could hear the smirk in her voice. "I admit, it's not nearly so poetic as wanting his coveted First Chair position, but as far as motives go, I see no reason not to stick to the classics."

"I see."

"The problem, Mr. Moriarty, is that your plan - and I am of course assuming you have a plan - is most likely not going to have the impact I want. You may be able to have him begging for mercy. But if we work together, he'll be begging for _death_."

Jim hummed softly as he walked back to the street and tried to flag down a cab.

"You have my attention, Ms. Adler."


	3. Chapter 3 Sherlock

"Christ, when was the last time you slept, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly, lids giving way to take in the sight of a take-away coffee cup in front of him. He reached out slowly and took it, bringing it to his lips and carefully sipping it.

Perfect.

His eyes slid up to see Jim standing just off to the side. They were at Cadogan Hall - how had he not realised this? His eyes narrowed slightly as he thought back.

"What's today?"

Jim stared at him. "Thursday."

"Ah."

Jim sat down in his own seat, shaking his head. "You need to relax."

Sherlock sipped his coffee and said nothing. He did need to relax - but when was it ever that simple, really?

"So?"

He opened his eyes again, vaguely wondering when he'd closed them. "What?" He looked over at Jim.

Jim sighed heavily. "When did you last sleep? _Really_ sleep, that is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Four or five days ago. Maybe six..."

He heard Jim mutter something that sounded vaguely like a curse and his name. "Right. So, basically, since I asked you to come by almost a week ago. You need to go home."

"I'm perfectly fine."

"No, you're not." Jim was twisting a bit to look at him more directly. "You look like you crawled out of a grave instead of a bed, Sherlock. You weren't sleeping well before that, and now you're not sleeping at all. You need rest."

Sherlock scoffed, but turned away slightly. He looked down at the floor. "It's... it's not that simple."

Jim was silent for a moment as he readied his violin, plucking idly at the strings before placing it on it's small stand next to the music stand. "Have you thought about what I... mentioned?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. He'd thought of little else, really. He'd been tempted to meet Jim, to call him and arrange something. He didn't even know what Jim would possibly have planned that could make him forget, but he wanted to try.

"What would... forgetting... entail?" Sherlock licked his lips as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the sheet music in front of him. "Just so... I know what to expect."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim nod slowly. "Have you ever tried... anything?"

Sherlock frowned, his head turning minutely towards Jim. "What do you mean, anything? I've tried a lot of things, you might want to be more specific."

Jim snorted. "I meant, have you ever tried... substances?"

Sherlock stretched his back up a bit, rolling his shoulders gently. "You mean drugs."

"Shhh!"

He turned fully to see Jim glaring at him.

"Keep your voice down!"

Sherlock smirked. "Why, afraid of being caught?"

Jim made a face. "Well, yes. This is my career, Sherlock, I don't want to jeopardize it by having the wrong person hear something they shouldn't have..."

Sherlock cocked his head. "But you trust me with it."

Jim looked at him earnestly. "You're my friend."

Sherlock stared, not moving, as Jim bent to grab his bow and rosin. There was that word again. _Friend_.

"Right." Sherlock's voice had gone soft and distant. "Of course." He bent down to retrieve his own bow and rosin, taking comfort in the familiar routine.

Several minutes passed in relative quiet as they prepared for the day's rehearsal.

Lestrade worked them hard that day, putting them through their paces as excitedly as he did their individual sections. The season was about to start up, and that meant days of practice lost to travel, and that meant that their conductor was alight with the drive to make sure they were at their peak before all of that started.

When the day wound down, Sherlock turned to Jim, watching him placing everything back in the hard, black case.

"What are you doing tonight?"

Jim startled and looked up quickly. "I... well, nothing planned-"

"Good. I'll..." Sherlock swallowed. "I'll come by. Around... seven?"

Jim watched him for a moment, then nodded and smiled. "It's a date."

Sherlock blushed, then quickly turned away, putting his violin into its case delicately. "Would you... am I allowed to know what... kind?" Sherlock frowned as he snapped the case shut, irritated by his own inability to ask a simple question. Usually he had no trouble expressing himself, but... Jim changed so many things.

"Oh, yes, of course..."

Sherlock turned, coming face to face with Jim, their noses barely an inch apart. Sherlock's eyes were immediately drawn to Jim's mouth, sense memory taking over and reminding him of the way they'd felt under his own, the way Jim's lips had been tart and stained from the wine, how they'd been warm and perfect and-

"I've, uh... it's... coke."

Sherlock's eyes flicked back up to Jim's. "You... you use-"

"Shhh!" Jim's lips puckered, and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry as he stared at them again. "I've only ever... once, but... it was... it helped. A lot."

Sherlock tried to swallow as he nodded carefully. "And... you think..." His eyes canted back up to Jim's.

"Yes, I think it could help you."

Sherlock closed his mouth before he did something incredibly stupid, such as lean forward those few inches and press his mouth to Jim's. It was one thing when they were alone, but here, at the hall, that...

He closed his eyes. "I'll see you at seven, then."

He felt Jim's breath on his face, a calm, soft breeze that smelt of mint chewing gum and a hint of coffee. "I'll be waiting."

When Sherlock opened his eyes, Jim was gone. Not even a flutter of wind as he'd left.

Sherlock let out a breath he'd been inadvertently holding, and grabbed his violin case.

This was going to be an interesting night.

He flagged a taxi relatively easily, rattling off the address and closing his eyes again as he leant back, taking long, even breaths. The ride was faster than he'd expected, and he handed the fare over without a word, mounting the steps to the building that had his flat.

It wasn't anything special, really - one bedroom with a closet sized toilet and a broom cupboard sized closet, a small kitchen that he used mostly for making tea or running an experiment that had snagged his interest, and a miniscule sitting room that housed more books than most people read in a lifetime. There was even a television, though it was a bit dusty and Sherlock could not remember ever using it before.

He sighed, looking around. This was his life, after Irene. One depressingly crowded flat that was short on furniture - he didn't even have a chair to sit on in the living room - and food - his refrigerator was often home to petri dishes with various cultures growing on them.

His stomach decided right then to remind him that it did, in fact, have needs, thank you very much, by emitting a tremendous and rumbling growl. He winced as a lancing pain shot through his gut to punctuate the notion. He fished his phone from his pocket and sent a hasty text.

[_Dinner? -SH_]

He stepped through the sitting room and into his bedroom as the reply came. [_Sounds lovely. Shall I order in? -Jim M_]

He began undressing, trying to reply one handed. [_I've a preference for curried chicken and rice. -SH_]

He grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist. His phone chimed, and he smiled at it.

[_I know a place. I'll have it here when you arrive. -Jim M_]

He dropped his phone back onto the bed, and stepped into the bathroom.

The shower was tiny - barely enough room for him, as skinny as he was - but the water heated up remarkably quickly and it felt like heaven as it beat down on him. He scrubbed shampoo through his hair, fingertips kneading into his scalp until he was nearly moaning. He scrubbed at the rest of himself, wondering if the water went hot enough to burn away the thoughts he'd been having just before Jim had left.

When he was finished, he stepped out and toweled off, reveling in the light sting still lingering against his skin from the heat.

He sat on his bed and rolled his shoulders again, eyes looking towards his closet.

He decided on a simple suit and button-up shirt. He carefully brushed his curls out, cursing his luck in the genetic lottery that had given him his mother's hair. Mycroft had gotten off lucky, the bastard - he'd gained their father's hair, which was straight and easily managed. Sherlock glared at his reflection in the mirror, as though he could will his hair to change simply by thinking at it hard enough.

Finally, he sighed, resigning himself to the fact that there really was no cure for this, and he sat back down to put on his socks and shoes. He grabbed a long coat he'd been given for Christmas the year before, sliding his arms into it and smoothing it down in the front. He would likely never admit it, but Mycroft had chosen rather well when he'd picked it out.

At last, he grabbed his keys, phone, and wallet, and headed out the door.

He flagged a taxi and rattled off Jim's address, fingers punching things into his phone as he rode along. The sun was just beginning to set as the cab pulled to a stop.

Sherlock took a deep breath, handed over his fare, and stepped out.

He was suddenly hit with just how much like a _date_ this felt. _And wouldn't that be lovely to see in the papers_, he thought grimly. He didn't much care what people said about him, really - it was the _attention_ that all the talk brought with it. People could think whatever they liked - as long as he knew the truth, he was able to ignore it. But when people thinking led to talking and _watching_, it unnerved him more than he was comfortable with.

He stared up at the building's façade for a moment, then stepped forward and pushed the bell.

A moment later, Jim was opening the door, smiling and stepping back to allow him in. Sherlock nodded once and stepped inside, pulling his coat around him.

_Defense mechanism_, he thought. _Still unsure how to relax in Jim's company. Hints of arousal, so not just defense - embarrassment, perhaps. Interesting response._

He followed Jim up the stairs, remembering the feeling of being soaked through and freezing, the way Jim kept looking back at him...

Once more without thinking, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Jim's hand. Jim turned back, startled, and Sherlock pressed close, lips seeking Jim's.

Papers be damned, they could print whatever they wanted. Sherlock just wanted to know...

He pressed forward still, backing Jim up to the wall at the landing, leaning down and into him as his lips worked against Jim's, his hands awkwardly holding Jim's hips against his own. Jim smiled against his mouth and slipped his arms under Sherlock's coat, under Sherlock's arms, nudging them up. Sherlock had to let go of Jim's hips, but he was rewarded when Jim arched toward him. The telltale feeling of an erection pressed into the side of Sherlock's thigh, and he moaned quietly.

"I wasn't..." Jim was panting now, his hands holding tight to the back of Sherlock's suit jacket. "I didn't think... you wanted..."

"I didn't either." Sherlock nipped at Jim's lower lip, pressed himself tighter, closer, his whole body shaking with emotions he wasn't used to, and he closed his eyes against it, willing himself to calm down, to _think_.

"Are you-"

"Sure? No." Sherlock shook his head, his voice quiet. "I-"

"We should stop, then."

His eyes opened, and he saw Jim staring at him, looking almost as lost as Sherlock felt. Sherlock let the words sink in, then nodded and stepped back, hands running through his own hair as he tried to figure out what was going on inside his own mind.

"Fine."

"Maybe we could... talk first." Jim gestured with his head. "Upstairs."

Sherlock licked his lips and motioned for Jim to lead the way.

Once inside the flat, Sherlock looked around, taking it all in again. He'd seen so little of it the last time, been so focused on other things, that it felt almost like he'd never been there before. His stomach growled as he saw the takeaway boxes on the small dining table, the scents overwhelming his ability to think for a moment, the desire for them nearly as potent as when he'd pinned Jim against the wall just-

No, stop that. Time enough for worrying over that and figuring it out later. Focus now.

His eyes flitted over everything, giving him so much information. It wasn't until his eyes rested on a small, antique wooden box settled on the coffee table in front of the sofa that he felt his brain go uncomfortably quiet. There was no mistaking it's significance, though just what about it tipped him off he couldn't actually say - and that was a worrisome fact.

"Is that..." He took an involuntary step forward, eyes still transfixed.

Jim looked up, followed Sherlock's gaze. "Oh, yeah, that's... that's it."

Sherlock stepped around the armrest and lowered himself slowly onto the far cushion, head cocked to the side and still staring at the box. He swallowed. "May I?" He reached out, stopping himself before he actually touched it.

Jim laughed softly. "Of course. Said this was about you, didn't I?"

Sherlock leaned forward and plucked the box carefully off the glass tabletop. He smoothed his fingers over it, marveling at the finely detailed carvings in it - a hunting scene, German by the stylistic look of the people and animals. Easily over a hundred years old, yet looking better cared for than nearly everything in his own small flat - his violins were, naturally, the only exception. And this box - this piece of art he held in his hands - gave them a run for their money.

He delicately flicked at the clasp holding the box shut, then pulled it open. The inside was no less beautiful, lined in a deep, royal blue velvet, everything placed just so in spaces precisely designed to hold them.

There was a vintage syringe, which looked as though it had been retro-fitted for new hypodermic needles - of which there were two, held to the top of the box with care. There was a small razor blade, and a flap-style lid which, Sherlock had no doubts, held the drug itself. He slipped a fingernail under the lip of the lid, and popped it open.

Sure enough, there were two small plastic baggies, each containing pristine white powder. He swallowed against the dryness suddenly sticking to every available inch of his throat, and looked up at Jim, who was staring back at him, face unreadable.

"It's beautiful."

"It's for you."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Why?"

Jim shrugged. "I... inherited that. From someone I'd rather forget."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at the box in his hands. "I see."

"Do you?"

Sherlock's eyes moved back to Jim, who was smiling gently. "Indeed. Either someone who hurt you, or... someone..." He cocked his head as his voice tapered off. "No, definitely someone who hurt you. Hurt you deeply."

Jim looked down. "You _are_ good."

"I'm sorry." Jim looked up, and Sherlock wondered if there was anything he could _do_ that would honestly help the situation at all. He didn't think so, but he wanted to _try_ at least. "For... your loss."

Jim watched him, then gave a sad smile and moved to come sit beside him. "So. Any questions?"

"So very many."

Jim snickered, and took the box from Sherlock gingerly.

He spent several minutes explaining how it worked - how you could snort or inject the drug, how best to prepare it, how to heat it in order to melt it for injecting, what to cut it on, and so on. Sherlock took it all in, watching him as he talked, and listening.

"Still want to try it?"

Sherlock looked at it. He'd not had much time in the cab ride, but he had looked up some side effects. He was fairly certain he could handle them, but...

"How... how low a dose could we do. To start?"

Jim shrugged. "Low as you want, really. How about we start off really small? Say... a five percent solution. Injected."

Sherlock nodded, and watched Jim set about preparing it. Watched intently as the powder mixed with some water, melted almost immediately. Watched Jim heat it in a spoon as he instructed Sherlock to ready the syringe with one of the needles.

Finally, he held the syringe, it's concoction settled and ready. Jim showed him how to strap his arm, how to find the vein.

"Ready?"

Sherlock looked into Jim's eyes and nodded. "Yes."

The needle pierced his skin. He winced, then slowly pushed the plunger down.

* * *

Sorry for the slow updates. Life. Who knew it would get so crazy.

SO. You may - or may not - have noticed the lovely images I now have for the stories in the Composing Hallelujah 'verse. These are the, "covers," I've made, and they are all available on my AO3 account (that's Archive Of Our Own, same user name there as here), because I can actually post images there. They're also on my Tumblr's (PM me if you haven't seen my usernames on there, they're a bit lengthy), so if you want to see bigger/easier to see versions, those are the places to go!

And next, thank you all SO, SO MUCH for everything - ever like/fave/subscription/follow/etc. You guys are amazing, and not a day goes by that I don't feel incredibly blessed and thankful for each and every one of you. Writing is something you do because you have a story inside you and you just have to tell it, regardless of what others think - but being able to share it with others who enjoy it? That's a GIFT. All of you have made my life so much richer and better, and I want to thank you for it. You've no idea what it means to me.

AND FINALLY, for any of you interested in it, 221B-Con is happening April 13th & 14th, 2013, in Atlanta, GA. For those of you going, COME FIND ME. I will be there - and it will be my very first con OF ANY KIND, EVER. I've already registered, and it looks to be an absolute BLAST. So, seriously, find me! I love meeting my readers and fellow Sherlockians. Be you not of the House of Montague, come and crush a cup of wine! (Unless you're under 21, in which case, it's virgin daiquiris for you.)

DFTBA, my lovelies.


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